My book club has prescribed Jeff Lindsay’s fourth Dexter novel, Dexter by Design. I hadn’t read any of the earlier three, mainly because in the early 2000s I read so many serial killer books that I swore off them forever. Whereas the early classics shone a light on the good/evil mystery that draws me to explore the darker side of humanity, quickly enough such books formed a sub-genre with worn-out, repeated motifs.
So I came to Dexter by Design with rather fresh eyes. And from the very start, it’s clear we’re in the hands of one capable writer. In case you don’t know, Dexter Morgan is a twisted killer with a ‘Dark Passenger’ inside who loves to break out and chop up people. But the twist is this: Dexter only kills other serial killers. And he works as a blood spatter expert for the Miami police! Lindsay manages to maintain an ironic, distanced, jokey voice that succeeds in putting us inside the head of this unbelievable villain/hero. I cannot myself imagine writing as a psychopath with no feelings and, what’s more, full self-awareness, but the author manages it with aplomb. I found myself smiling with appreciation at the mastery.
In this instalment, we find Dexter newly married (with a ditzy wife yet two gorgeously twisted stepchildren) and subdued. Subdued, that is, until corpses turn up arranged as twisted forms of tourist advertising. Tight plotting, with twist following twist, pulls us to follow Dexter – sometimes himself, sometimes his hideous alter ego – track the killer down.
This is as stylish and engaging a read as I’ve had this year, and the sheer novelty of the protagonist and the authorial voice helped create an absorbing experience. I finished the book fast and with gusto.
The end of the book isn’t the end of my review. Something about Dexter by Design kept niggling at me and I guess you won’t be surprised by it. Jeff Lindsay manages, by dint of a clever, consistent style, to make this fiend Dexter appealing enough to accompany for a novel’s worth of adventure. But make no mistake, we’re being asked to sympathise with a stone killer. Not empathise, not understand, but sympathise. I felt ill when I realized where I’d ended up. Fascination with evil, as existential puzzlement, is one thing; looking forward to a dozen Dexter novels is another. So . . . despite enjoying and admiring the book, I won’t read another Dexter. Nor will I watch the TV series.
Am I recommending this book or not? That depends on you more than me.